


I Find That I Am Quite Smitten

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Series: Feel This Magic [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mollstrade, SO MUCH FLUFF, bit of angst, hints at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 of "Feel This Magic."</p><p>Really more fluff, but I accidentally started adding some more plot towards the end, which means you'll be stuck reading many more parts of this series to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Find That I Am Quite Smitten

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So, this one's a bit longer than the others, but I do hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thanks to theholmeswholived on tumblr for being my best friend, beta, and blog sitter while I stress about finals.
> 
> The physics final I took today was a horrible disastrous nightmare, so I sat down and wrote this immediately once I got home. Apologies as it is unedited.

_Saturday 12:00_

“Hello, boys,” said Sally. There was a certain strangled quality to her voice that made Sherlock quite smug to have achieved that effect and John quite uncomfortable to have achieved it as well.

“Donovan,” Sherlock said patronizingly, and made a point of interlacing his fingers with John’s, who rolled his eyes but didn’t retreat.

Her gaze flickered briefly to their joined hands before she gave a little _good lord what have we gotten ourselves into here_ head shake and pointed down the hallway. “Suicide occurred three rooms down to your left. You’ve got ten minutes.”

“Oh, please. It wasn’t a suicide,” Sherlock muttered. “Come on, John.”

“In a minute,” John called to the flapping black overcoat. He turned to Sally and started to speak, but she cut him off.

“Congratulations. He’s...”

“Yeah, I know. Listen - it’d mean a lot to me if you kept this on the down low. I don’t fancy everyone knowing.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You don’t want people finding out that you’ve managed to net the only consulting detective in the world?”

“Surprisingly, no. Sally,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’m very happy right now, with the way things are, but I also need some time to process what’s going on, because it all seems a bit” - “Weird? Awkward?” Sally suggested - “too good to be true sometimes.” He cleared his throat. “I would just appreciate it if I could have your word - you and Greg - that you won’t be... disclosing this information just yet.”

She scrutinized him, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Great, thanks.”

“John!” came Sherlock’s voice, insistent and domineering as always.

“Ta,” said John, and Sally waved him off.

+

_Sunday 10:30_

John stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. "Morning," he yawned. 

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope for a moment, then back down and said briskly, "Tea."

"What?"

Sherlock gestured impatiently to the kitchen counter. "Tea. For you."

John went over to the steaming mug and brought it back to sit in his chair. "Wait, it's hot."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm sure you have realized by now that tea is most usually hot, given that a key ingredient is boiled water -"

"How did you know when I'd wake up?"

"Simple deduction. Breathing patterns, physical activity, the like.” Sherlock gave a dismissive wave.

A thought occurred to John, causing a slow grin to spread across his face. "Hang on a minute, you haven't been watching me while I was sleeping, have you?”

Sherlock’s lips pursed as he seemed to grasp for words. Finding none, he cleared his throat and said, “No, of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” and looked back at the moldy something-rather that was currently occupying half the table.

“You know, it’s fine,” said John, smiling. “I hope I didn’t do anything embarrassing, though.”

“No, perfect, all perfect, it eludes me,” muttered Sherlock, as if to himself.

“Me?”

“What? No. No, not - I was only - hand me a pen.”

John rolled his eyes and passed one over. “It’s fine if you want to, I dunno. Whatever.”

He was met with silence (that was a rather feeble sentence, after all) which stretched on for a solid forty-five minutes while John washed up, shaved, and got dressed to go meet with Mike for lunch.

“See you,” he said. Sherlock still hadn’t moved, which was hardly surprising; then, entirely out of the blue, the detective said,

“In the interest of honesty, I must confess that I may have done that - that thing that you accused me of. I find the notion of having a John Watson in my bed to be what some sentimentalists might deem ‘miraculous.’”

John’s heart skipped a beat as he teased, “Having _a_ John Watson? Have you shared your bed with other John Watsons? I wasn’t aware there were any. Not like me, at least.”

Sherlock ducked his head, still refusing to meet John’s eye. Then he admitted, staring resolutely at the wall across from him, “Either way, I find that I am quite smitten.”

The shy frankness with which the man stated this was so damn _sweet_ that John had to come over and wrap his arms round Sherlock from behind, saying, “Well, I could say the same about you.”

Sherlock finally turned and looked at John, a piercing, breathtaking gaze that pinned him in place. “Really?”

“Of course.” John kissed him gently on the temple, then responded to Sherlock’s hopeful, upturned face with a rather less chaste kiss. His phone trilled; Mike wanted to know where he was. “Sorry,” John apologized, pecking Sherlock twice and then pulling away. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Okay,” said Sherlock, sounding breathless and looking absolutely irresistible and John groaned in frustration because he did really need to speak with Mike and had promised that they’d catch up soon, and that was a solid four months ago.

John was barely on the landing when he realized he’d forgotten his wallet and spun around to open the door and dash back in. When he turned the knob, he heard something like a triumphant noise, the sort that Sherlock made when he had a particularly outstanding realization during a case. A peek inside revealed the detective to be all but leaping across the room before proceeding to pace, hands thrust into his pockets and a beam plastered to his (unfairly, ludicrously gorgeous) face. He strode rapidly back and forth, giving a little hop each time he changed direction, and ran a hand through his hair with a very contented sigh. If John didn’t know any better, he’d think that Sherlock was celebrating something.

“John Watson,” murmured Sherlock suddenly. “ _John Hamish Watson_ is smitten with me.”

“Brilliant deduction, that,” said John, unable to resist revealing himself. He walked in, snatched up his wallet, and winked at Sherlock, who was turning bright red. Then he paused, frowned, and added, “Wait - how did you know my middle name?”

+

_Monday 15:30_

John was just leaving the clinic when he ran into Sarah.

“Hi,” she said, flashing a smile that wasn’t completely fake but wasn’t sincere either. If she was going to judge him, then that was her problem. Also John’s. John did not like being judged.

“Hi,” he replied. “How was your, erm... outing?”

“Good, good, yeah,” she said, nodding. “And your date?”

“Went well.”

“Glad to hear it. No faffing off then?” She gave a little tinkling laugh. “No dropping everything and running for Mister Sherlock Holmes?”

“Not... not really, no. That is to say, I stayed with my date the entire time. Uninterrupted.” He thought briefly of Angelo, and of Lestrade, and of wailing ambulances, and amended, “Sort of.” Then he thought of kissing Sherlock (which was brilliant) (he really, really enjoyed it) (really) and curling up under the safe roof (when there weren’t killers on the loose) of 221B Baker Street, and explained, “Uninterrupted, at the end.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“Mmhm.”

“I’d better be off, then,” said Sarah, and shifted side-to-side for a moment. “See you around, John.”

+

_Tuesday 10:15_

“This is mad. This is so mad,” hissed John.

“Sh,” Sherlock said sternly.

“Sherlock, we are hiding in a _boat._ ”

“It’s not _moving,_ and besides, you’ve got sea legs, you have no reason to complain.”

“How do you know anything about my legs?” snapped John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted so that he was even more impossibly contorted and had a better view of the dock. For a few minutes, nothing happened except breathing in stale air and starting to wish that a murderer would show up so it wasn’t so dull, and then Sherlock conceded quietly, “You do have very nice legs.”

John was feeling rather chuffed at the compliment, and would have made some gesture of appreciation except his leg, niceness notwithstanding, was cramping up and his shoulder was starting to ache. “Thanks,” he said.

“John,” said Sherlock, looking suddenly very intense.

A thought occurred to John, and he felt the very edges of panic. “Is this the Talk?” he asked sharply. “Because if so, I don’t think that this is the appropriate -”

“Bomb, John,” Sherlock said, “behind you.” There was nothing fake about his gaze. John surpassed the edges of panic and plunged head first into fight or flight, scrabbling madly to ward it off. Inhale two three four, hold two three four, exhale two three four...

“This is great,” said John shakily, once he was able to regain control of his breath. “Thank you _so_ much for getting me into this situation, you sick bastard, I -”

“Don’t. Move.”

Slumping in defeat, John obeyed. This wasn’t the first time he’d been around a bomb, and all things considered it was better than being tied to a chair while he watched his girlfriend almost get impaled, but no one ever really gets used to being trapped in the belly of a cargo ship with explosives less a millimeter away from his or her ear.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, creeping closer, “I’m going to see if I can dismantle it.”

“ _If?”_ John whisper-screamed hoarsely.

“I can. I can, I just need to... give me a moment.” He fumbled behind John’s head for five terrifying seconds. “I can’t - I didn’t realize - hold on.”

“Sherlock? If we die here, I swear I am going to kill you first,” John said through gritted teeth.

“That statement lacks logic of any caliber,” retorted Sherlock as he did something fancy with beeping and machinery. “Alright, there’s no timer on it.”

John sagged against the side of the boat in relief. “Oh, thank god.”

“...but it’s pressure-activated.”

John froze. The sound of boots marching across the dock magnified tenfold. Pressure _bloody_ activated.“Fuck” didn’t even begin to cover it. It was a massive struggle to keep his voice even and to simultaneously not strangle Sherlock, but he managed, barely. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he asked, “Can you get us out of here? Phone Lestrade, text Mycroft, go to your mind palace, for Christ’s sake!”

“I am, John - rest assured that I am; however, it transpires that I intentionally nailed us back in so as to avoid suspicion and any sudden movements might -”

“I don’t care, give me the hammer,” ordered John.

Sherlock grimaced.

“ _Sherlock.”_

“Discretion was paramount. We are dealing with an extremely intelligent ring of smugglers here -”

“So you threw out the hammer. God _dammit,_ Sherlock.”

“Don’t worry. I obviously have a plan.”

“You’re horrid and I hate you.”

Sherlock gave him a disparaging look. “Now, don’t be puerile.”

“I’m going to die.”

“No, you are _not_. Not on my watch.”

It was almost romantic, the way he said it. John was still distracted by the bomb sitting directly above his temple, though. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to practice radical acceptance. If he _was_ going to die, then at least Sherlock would be there with him, and in a morbid sort of way it seemed fitting. They could only cheat death so many times.

Thirty excruciating seconds of introspective inner monologue (John’s) later, Sherlock hummed in satisfaction and sat back on his heels. “There we go.”

“It’s gone?”

“No, it’s still there, but I vandalized the spring.”

“So... now what?”

“Now,” said Sherlock grandly, wriggling around and hooking his hand under a handle - “You _bastard,”_ muttered John, “there was a bloody escape hatch the whole time!” - “we go catch a criminal.”

+

_Wednesday 15:00_

“I still haven’t quite gotten over the part where he almost got me killed, but I suppose us dating wouldn’t change that. Sherlock will be Sherlock, you know.”

Molly stared at him blankly.

“Oh, I haven’t mentioned? Sorry, sorry. We’re, uh.” He cleared his throat. “Dating.”

Her eyebrows rose impossibly higher. “You and Sherlock? Are... dating?”

He cleared his throat again. “Mm. Yes, we are.”

She seemed to be legitimately speechless, making little noises that didn’t amount to anything, before saying, “That’s nice.”

“Yeah, so.” They both stared at the yoghurt selection in aisle seven of Tesco. “How’s Tom, then?”

“Oh, he’s alright.” 

“Right. That’s - that’s good.” He liked Molly, and respected her friendship with Sherlock a great deal - there were so few people who didn’t want to smack him upside the head every time he walked into a room that John was deeply grateful for each and every one. Still, he and Molly had yet to develop any sort of camaraderie, leaving interactions such as these very uncomfortable.

“Yep,” she said timidly, nodding. They returned to staring fixedly at aisle seven, this time at the cottage cheese section.

“I’ve got to run, I’m meeting Greg for... something, I’m actually not sure what. He’s taken to being all secretive, like Mycroft, but I suppose that comes with the territory of being involved with Sherlock Holmes. I’ll see you at the morgue.” This he said rather more loudly than he intended to, and a startled mother a few rows down shot him an appalled look.

“See you,” Molly said, with that quick mousy smile of hers. Sweet girl, just awkward. “Actually,” she added hastily, “could you tell Greg that I say hello?”

“Greg? Yeah, sure.” Greg? As far as he could tell, the two had spent minimal time together, only really interacting on cases and when they needed to confer about Sherlock’s whereabouts.

She looked strangely relieved. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Is there a reason, or...?”

A vehement head shake. “Oh, no reason. Just, er, saying hi.”

John waited for elaboration; when none came, he turned on his heel and speed-walked away. Molly and Greg, huh. That would be the day.

+

_19:00_

Sherlock was not one to do much in the way of domestic chores, and he was very determined not to change that, not even for John. 

Well, maybe a little for John. 

John had returned from the clinic and shopping and meeting with Lestrade in some sort of _mood_. He was pensive, and pensive was not something associated with John Watson. Worse, he was oddly distant: not quite enough for Sherlock to voice any sort of valid complaint (perhaps a blasé comment?) (as if) (he was rubbish at casual and when he cared about things such as John he tended to get a bit murder-y under the stress of being concerned for someone's welfare other than his own). 

Then John had found the tufts of hair and the dead frog and the other four metatarsal bones - Sherlock had been looking for the full set, only to discover that one had been hiding under John's black and white striped shirt the whole time - and got very miffed. After making a noise that indicated displeasure, he heaved a huge sigh and walked out. 

Leaving Sherlock with something cold and heavy feeling in his stomach. 

John wouldn't just _leave,_ would he? He panicked and stopped the train of thought there.

At which point an idea of How To Ensure That John's Not Angry With Me began to form. 

So now he was standing in a disconcertingly tidy kitchen two burns, three cuts, and four negligible cracks (mugs were material and dull in the first place) later. He'd shoved everything science-related hurriedly into cabinets and under countertops to make room for cleaning dishes, discovering that the hot water on the sink did indeed get very hot along the way. He was careless with the knives at one point - he did not, after all, know when John might decide to come back, and therefore assumed time to be of the essence, and didn't bother with grabbing the right end of the cutlery. In the end, the bleeding stopped and didn't get on anything important. Dish soap, it later transpired, was extremely slippery when not fully washed off of a teacup, hence the negligible cracks. 

Sherlock was generally pleased with himself as he surveyed his work. This would please John, if nothing else.

Sherlock wished _he_ could make John happy, too.

+

_20:15_

“I’m back, sorry that took so - _Sherlock!_ ”

Sherlock glanced up from the couch. “John,” he said.

“Sherlock, what did you do - oh my _god_ -”

Stiffening, Sherlock rotated so that he was sitting rather than lying on the sofa, and looked at John with a panicked expression. “I thought you would like it, I even threw out the larvae -”

But John, as it quickly became evident, was not inquiring about the state of the kitchen; he rushed to Sherlock’s side and grabbed at his hands. “You’ve got blood everywhere, Jesus Christ, what happened?”

“Oh,” Sherlock said in disinterest, “it would appear I have.” 

“Get into the bathroom,” John ordered. Sherlock hesitated. “Come on, up you go,” John said firmly, tugging Sherlock to his feet. “Can’t leave you alone for two minutes without you getting shot, or a bomb going off, or -”

“But you did,” said Sherlock insistently, standing patiently as John retrieved his hefty medical kit and started swiping wipes and ointments every which way.

John paused and glanced at Sherlock, brow wrinkled. “I did what?”

“Leave me.” He intended for it to sound slightly less shaky, but his vocal cords had apparently failed to get that particular memo.

“Sherlock - what - I -” John put down the gauze to grab Sherlock’s arm. “You do know that wasn’t about you, right?”

“You didn’t want to talk to me.”

“I was preoccupied!”

“You didn’t act as if you... liked me.”

“Of course I like you, you great big idiot!”

“I didn’t -”

“Oh, for god’s - listen to me. Sometimes, just sometimes, people get annoyed, or upset, by little things. And sometimes, those things don’t have to do with their perfect gorgeous flatmates, alright?”

Sherlock smiled involuntarily. “I’m... perfect.”

John nodded. “Mmhm.”

“And gorgeous.”

“Even you must know that.”

Actually, he didn’t, but he’d make John explain that later. “Just flatmates?”

“Smitten flatmates, remember?” John smirked, stood on tiptoe to briefly plant a kiss on Sherlock’s temple, and reached for the antibacterial cream again. “Let me finish patching you up, yeah?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock; then, a few seconds later, just to make absolute certain, “ _quite_ smitten?”

John shook his head in exasperation even as an affectionate little blush spread across his face. “Quite smitten.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please please comment and leave kudos! I love hearing what you guys think about this, and if you would like me to carry on!


End file.
